


the hand and the paint

by stardating



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prehistoric, Ancient History, Cave Paintings, Caves, Language Barrier, M/M, Magic, Rituals, Stone Age, ancient religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28964610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardating/pseuds/stardating
Summary: He had gone into the caves and the gods had left their mark on him. He had crossed the threshold of death and returned.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 56





	the hand and the paint

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone on the MCU Stony Discord Server for the initial ideas we ran away with! As always, you are a wonderful source of information, inspiration, and creativity!
> 
> For clarification, this story takes place around 3,000 BCE, during the Neolithic Era in Ireland. This is about 500 years before the Bronze Age would begin and long before the Iron Age. This is when all sorts of things were happening in various stages, going from east to west: cities were being built, writing systems were being developed, agriculture was taking off, and people were discovering ores and beginning to develop smelting processes. I had a ton of fun researching for this, but forgive me if there’s anything weird or off. Timelines are hard, especially once you have to start dealing with the backwards dates and prehistorical uncertainties!
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> * * *
> 
> _“We are the cave, the hand and the paint on them both.”_
> 
> _— Freedom Goodbird_
> 
> * * *

Antonius had not wanted to go into the caves.

Everyone knew that they were the sacred realms of the gods. They were places to be feared and respected, avoided except for when the gods demanded tribute. No one knew how deep they went. No one knew where they went or what was to be found inside them, beyond the horrifying legends of the underworld and the lands of the dead. To go into one, to go beyond where the sunlight lingered, was to bring death and ill fortune upon the clan, for the gods would never forgive the insult of a mortal crossing into their world.

And no one would ever come back.

Antonius remembered there being water. It dripped from somewhere up high. The ground beneath his feet rose and fell. Sand and rough grit stuck to his legs and arms. Large rocks broke up the sandy ground, causing him to stumble. He scraped his knees and palms. His temple bled from a thrown rock. His lungs burned with cold.

He kept running until he could no longer see the firelight of their torches.

He kept running until he could not see any light at all and his body gave out.

He prayed. He prayed for mercy. He didn’t want revenge. Ovadyah could do whatever he wanted. His power would only last for as long as he could control the people he gave the tools to or managed to bribe with whatever wealth he managed to collect or steal. But unless he found a more clever way of maintaining power than through fear, the warriors would eventually rebel against him. They would want more power, too.

No, Antonius only wanted to be given a chance to redeem himself. To go back and save his friends.

He evoked all the names of the gods who might have pity. He prayed and prayed.

He prayed for—

Then he knew a darkness deeper than the one surrounding him.

* * *

He recalled screaming, begging—

A hand was slammed on his forehead, scalding hot.

Someone … someone said … there was chanting and drums. His ears pounded and his whole body throbbed with pain. He struggled and fought against the ropes that were holding him down, but it was no use. The chanting continued. He didn’t recognize the language. He didn’t know who was doing this to him or why or even _what_ they were doing.

How long had the darkness claimed him before he awoke? Had someone ventured into the caves to bring him out to the land of the living again? Was he being punished here and now for defiling the realm of the gods?

The hand on his forehead gentled.

_All will be well. Your prior services have been recognized._

The voice echoed inside his mind and he knew then this was the work of the gods.

_You have been chosen. You shall suffer, but you will be rewarded._

But what were they _doing_ to him?

* * *

When he woke once more, he could still not see. Water was still dripping from somewhere in a steady beat, the light sound echoing throughout the cave. He was still shivering and huddled somewhere. His chest ached and burned. There was now an unfamiliar weight upon it and …

And there was light.

It was soft and blue, unlike anything he had ever seen. Not even the sky or the ocean could compare. It shone on his hands and down his body, but he could not tell where the source was from. Not immediately. And when he suspected, he shook such a thought away.

His eyes adjusting some, he saw the cave for what it was: an enormous cavern filled with columns of stones rising to form the ceiling or disappearing into deep darkness, some coming down to almost meet the ground, and a vast number of other formations he could not describe. Small rivers of water trickled down the stones, dripping and splashing as they went.

It was beautiful.

_Antonius—Man of the Íarn—rise. Rise! You are not meant to remain here!_

The voice echoed and thundered through the cavern.

His whole body ached. He wanted nothing more than to curl up somewhere and not move ever again. If he did not move, if he did not do anything, then he would not create. Tools would not be abused and people would not suffer. He wanted to sink back into darkness and blissful cold, but this was the realm of the gods. If they did not want him to linger, he could not. They had shown him mercy and it would be foolish to incur their wrath by not listening to them.

His knees shook as he stood. The light moved with him.

He climbed up a long pathway that was barely obstructed by any rocks or lower ceilings. He wished that he could study the rocks, explore more of the caves … but that kind of dangerous thinking was what got him into such trouble in the first place. It became steeper, but the light guided him. It was steady, never dimming or brightening.

It was like the unmoving stars that sailors used for navigation or the sun at its zenith in the summer months when everyone thought the world would burst into fire.

Antonius’ lungs ached and his chest heaved by the time sunlight in the tunnel began to increase. He could hear wind coming down and it soon became hard enough that it blew his hair about.

Just as he was about to give up—

Just as he was about to fall down and not rise once more, the tunnel suddenly … changed. The walls were suddenly made of large slabs of stones, arranged so they made walls. Smaller rocks filled in gaps in between them and many were decorated with spirals, circles, and other patterns. Above him was a ceiling made of stones placed in a circular pattern, gradually getting smaller until a final stone capped it all off. The air was cool, but everything was dryer.

He could no longer hear the sound of water dripping and echoing.

In the dirt before him, he also saw soft footprints.

His heart thudded. He had no idea where he was. He could not go back.

Following the tunnel, he passed by more carved rocks and a smaller passage way that had a large basin at the end of it. In it, he could see offerings: smaller stones with paint on them, bread that had long dried out, old sheaths of grain, and other such objects. This walk was a short one compared to the rest of his journey, leading him out to a highly decorated entrance.

In front of him were three large stones, coming up past his waist, with more of the swirled carvings. He had never seen such a style of carving before. It was wholly abstract and gave no clues as to its meaning or if it was meant to represent a god unknown to him. To his immediate right and left, high walls were made of dark gray stones—but only until the curve of the entrance ended. Beyond them, the rest of the walls were made of rounder stones that shone bright white in the sun. What should have been an impressive roof of more stones and walls was instead a mound of dirt, grass and flowers already beginning to grow. Eventually, he could predict, it would blend into what might be more hills and mounds in the surrounding area.

A wind blew hard.

He looked out and his eyes widened at all before him: miles and miles of meadows and fields, forests and the slightest hint of a river in the distance. Gone were the tall mountains and intense hills of grain and crops, scattered with villages. Gone were the bright blue skies and a view of the ocean from all directions. Even though he knew it was the middle of the growing season and the sun should be beating down on him relentlessly, it felt as if they were in the depths of winter with unusually chilling winds and expected rains. As a matter of fact, it appeared that rain was already on its way—but the clouds moved so quickly across the landscape, it was as if the gods were changing their minds about the weather right before his eyes.

Antonius’ heart thudded with panic.

Where was he? Where had the gods sent him?

_What was he supposed to do?_

They had called him something, but—

Looking around some more and refusing to go too far from where he was, Antonius realized he was standing in the entrance of a mound. A burial mound. He not only had entered the realm of the gods, but he had traveled through the sacred resting place of the dead. The dead of people he did not know, of gods he did not know. He shook with fear.

His gods might have had mercy upon him, but that did not mean other gods would be so kind.

A young man suddenly came from around one of the sides of the mound. Despite his panic over how foreign gods might punish him for his transgressions, Antonius found himself fixating on the young man like he was a problem to be solved or one of his tools. With the sunlight against his back, he seemed ethereal. He was thin, but looked sturdy, only about Antonius’ height. His hair was the color of wheat in the middle of summer and his eyes were—

His eyes were the same blue that guided him out of the caves.

The man almost dropped the pot of water he was carrying.

“I—I’m sorry, I’m lost. The—the gods—” Antonius stammered and swallowed thickly. He didn’t know what the gods had done to him. He wasn’t even sure where he was. Someone with hair and eyes like that were said to have come from lands far away, where only the bravest of traders and travelers dared to go. Peperi was one such people, but she was brought through the slave channels when she was but a young girl. Whatever memories she had or whatever she might have known of her people had long faded. He heard rumors about such people: they were cursed by the gods, terrible warriors that brought plagues and famine to the lands.

He wasn’t sure about those rumors, never having met someone from those lands or seeing the results of those curses first hand, but there was always truth somewhere.

The man hastily set down his pot and rushed over towards Antonius. He flinched, closing his eyes, expecting there to be pain from a club or rock—

Instead, he felt soft hands on his face, wiping at his temple.

Antonius realized that there was some blood dripping down his chin.

The man spoke, but Antonius couldn’t understand the words.

“I don’t understand,” Antonius said, wishing he could. The man’s voice was soft and full of _kindness_ , something he had not experienced in a long time. Tears started to prickle in his eyes. He wished—there was so much he still had to do, to atone for—

The man started to hush him gently, his hands cradling his face.

Antonius let out a sob.

* * *

Antonius did not know what happened next, for when he awoke, he was somewhere else again.

Really, this had to stop happening to him. It was getting ridiculous.

From the looks of it, he was in a cave once more, but it was obviously in use by the living. Skins and hides were arranged around the floor, save for areas reserved for cooking and preparing food. He was on some of those skins with a large amount of cloth covering him, made from wool, but it was dyed a deep blue color. It had to have been expensive—only the richest of kings could afford to get cloth of this color and quality.

Near the mouth of the cave was a fire pit that allowed for light and warmth to come into the rest of the cave. He also could make out shelves where bread was stored above ground and a loom away from the fire. In the back of the cave were more supplies hanging on the walls, put on more shelves of wood tied together with leather strings, and a niche carved into one of the walls. He could not tell what was inside it. He knew better than to look.

But what took his breath away was the wall before him: from the bottom to almost the top and spanning the whole length of the wall, hands were scattered, outlined in reds, blacks, and whites. They were of different sizes, some overlapping, and some were more faded than others. The people who made this obviously sprayed the paint somehow, but why—

That was when he realized other people had just returned to the cave. Everyone seemed to be around the same age, which was unusual in a clan. None of them seemed to look related to one another either, which was even odder. They were dressed in various wraps, shawls, and cloaks made out of skins and more of that finely woven wool. It seemed to be warmer than the material he was dressed in, with horizontal and vertical lines crossing over one another to create a variety of patterns and colors. With how cold it seemed to be, Antonius wondered if he was further north, where the seasonal weather could be bitterer than the oceanic lands he knew.

But they did not seem pleased to see him.

He was clearly unexpected, if not unwelcomed.

The man with wheat hair suddenly appeared, speaking in rapid tones and holding onto Antonius like he could shield him with his thin body. The others seemed to calm down rather quickly and they soon put their weapons in a neat pile by the entrance. That did not stop them from giving him odd looks and murmuring to each other as they sat around the fire.

Antonius tried to keep up as they spoke, glean any information that he could, but he could barely figure out any of their names. The man with wheat hair apparently answered questions as best he could, but Antonius could tell from his expressions that he could only answer so much.

But when one of them, a woman with shocking red hair, pointed at the strange material that was now in the center of his chest, Antonius quickly covered it with his hands.

The man with the wheat hair spoke in a scolding tone, waving his arm towards the back of the cave. Antonius still couldn’t figure out why they were living inside a cave. Did caves not belong to their gods like his? Were they not sacred or forbidden? They should be living on a field with huts made of stone or in some sort of defended structure on high ground. Did they not fear the wrath of the gods? Or were the rumors true: that they did not believe in the gods? That they trespassed and desecrated sacred placed without fear of the consequences?

A hand touched his bare knee.

“Stiofán,” the man with wheat hair said, touching his own chest. Then he pointed to the person next to him: a taller man with slightly darker skin and long dark hair pulled back with a leather string. “Séamus.”

The man rolled his eyes, their color proving to be gray-blue, like the stormy ocean not far from the place Antonius used to call his home. What was most striking about him was his left arm: it appeared to be made of solid moonlight, but Antonius could tell it was a metal. It seemed familiar to him, but he was not sure where he had seen it before.

“Buk,” the man said, tapping his chest with his silvery arm.

Antonius’ heart skipped a beat, because he was not sure if that was the work of Hēphaistos or an example of one of the curses—

“Shem’el,” the man—no, _Stiofán_ —continued, interrupting his panicked thoughts. The man indicated had very dark skin and was lithe. Antonius recognized him as a member of the clans south of the Land of the Riverbank across the Great Sea. He had different features than Actus did. How did he get to this far of a land? Or were they not far from his home at all?

There was so much that Antonius did not know. There was so much he worried about, feared.

Were Petra and Actus alright? Would they survive Ovadyah and all of his cruel plans? What of all the other people he did not know intimately? They were innocents who did not deserve to have their lives destroyed or everything they worked for stolen.

If only, if only …

“Nataliya,” the woman with shocking red hair said next, interrupting his thoughts. Her eyes shone with something, like she knew his secrets. Her accent was a little different than the others, but maybe that was why her eyes shone. He knew of some people who could command the tongues of more than one people. Such knowledge often affected their speech no matter what they spoke. It was a great gift to have, to be blessed with.

Buk made a snorting sound and then pointed to Nataliya.

“Nat,” was all that Antonius could make of the sentence. By the way Nataliya rolled her eyes, it looked like she had attempted to play a trick on him.

But with the way that everyone else chuckled or showed some other forms of amusement, it was meant to be harmless and was not out of character for her. It made him want to be wary of her, but … But he didn’t want to be wary or suspicious of anyone here. It was not as if they were greeting him like some sort of king or deity, but as if … he was just a person.

How long had it been since someone treated him so?

How long had it been since someone had not seen his father’s face and remembered his wrath and prowess at battle? How long had it been since someone had not seen his mother’s eyes and wondered what happened to her and her wealth? How long had it been since someone had not looked at him and only saw something to be controlled and used?

“Antonius,” he said, his voice choking, pointing to himself.

He did not say any of his titles. He did not mention any of his lineage or their legacies.

Stiofán touched his knee, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Antonius,” Stiofán repeated, with a brilliant smile. Then, he said something Antonius did not understand, but it was said with such warmth, he knew it was a welcome.

* * *

Life with Stiofán and everyone else of the clan was different than his home.

Only Stiofán and his friends lived in the cave, guarding the small village that held the rest of their families in the small valley below them. They made frequent visits to the many huts made of reed and straw there, helping with the communal fields or larger tasks that a single person or family unit could not do alone. The burial mound was a half hour’s walk to the north and the sea laid beyond the village about half a day’s journey away to the east.

There were no servants and it was obvious that they did not have as much access to as many resources as he did back in Thrinacia. There were roads, small dirt paths that led to places to fish and to the small fields of grain and vegetables. It appeared that any centers of trade were some days’ walk away and such trips were infrequent. There was a great amount of stone in the soil, requiring many hard hours of labor to remove them, but they were being put to use as borders around their fields. If there were other villages, they were hidden by the hills across the way.

The nearby forests also held many foods to be foraged. He did not recognize many of the plants that were in it. They were all leafier, cool to the touch. He left gathering those plants up to Shem’el and Stiofán. The last thing he wanted to do was accidentally pick a fatal flower. It was also not wise to go into the forest alone, even in the afternoon. He heard wolves howling the first night he had slept in the cave with the rest of the clan. He had not heard wolves in a long time, so protected in the highly organized and developed village he had been born in.

He found himself longing for the intense sun, the dry dirt, and the forge he once had. He felt so out of place in a land without the obsidian he was used to finding along the ocean’s edge or knowing when the seasons would end or begin. Of course he could track the moon and the sun, but the skies were different—the stars were not in the same places as before.

The weather in these lands was harsher. Winds blew hard enough to almost knock him over and his feet had never been so cold before. Buk, despite his strange arm, was able to make him a good pair of leather shoes that prevented mud or water from getting in. Fur left inside added more warmth than a woven stocking. Still, getting up in the morning proved to be difficult, when he was buried under thick blankets of wool and furs.

It was not all bad, though. What they grew and gathered was enough to sustain them and they were not wasteful of anything they came across. Their livestock were hardy and healthy, giving them good wool for their clothing and meat when there was surplus. They all worked together, sharing the work as equally as possible, and came together around the fire every night to break bread and share stories with one another. The friendship and love they had for one another, despite not being related by blood, reminded him keenly of Peperi and Actus.

Antonius made sure to help any way that he could. He lifted stones and helped check for weeds and pests on the grain. He helped to clean the game they hunted. He was a mouth that had to be fed and he always disliked those who would laze about.

His father scoffed and called him plebian. His mother called him too ambitious.

There were so many other differences … He found himself questioning what the gods were thinking, sending him here. He was so far removed from everything he knew. There was little possibility to recreate his forges and kiln. He drew designs and plans in the dirt with sticks, dreaming and yearning for what once was.

* * *

He never mentioned the … whatever was on his chest after the first night.

It still cast a blue light in the darkness.

He dared not look at it or even touch it. He knew there was scarring around it. He felt the tug and sting of the skin. He felt its weight and its warmth.

No one else mentioned it again either.

* * *

One day, the clan was muttering about something.

“What … trouble?” Antonius asked.

Buk grumbled, his arms crossed with a stormy look on his features.

Stiofán looked ashamed.

Shem’el rolled his eyes and explained that Stiofán had been hunting with Buk, but he had slipped alongside a deep part of the river, losing many of their arrowheads and some of the kill they had managed to get. It was only a few rabbits, but they felt horribly guilty for the loss of the arrows. Buk had tried to retrieve any of them, but only got wet for his efforts.

They all were trying to assure Stiofán and Buk that it would be alright, but as Shem’el explained in a more colorful way, they were stupid.

“Oh.”

That night, while everyone else slept, Antonius risked the danger of darkness to find stones that would be suitable for making arrowheads. The work was difficult. He had only the dimming fire to work by, which he made sure to keep fed so everyone else could continue to sleep. The stones were harder than he expected and he had to work quietly, but he was determined.

He had fallen asleep over his work by dawn.

He did not hear everyone’s exclaims of surprise and delight until they shook him awake, amazed at the twenty arrowheads that he had so skillfully carved.

* * *

The language of the clan was softer than his own, with more of a cadence in the way they spoke. It could still be loud, sarcastic, and every other emotion under the sun, but there were a number of sounds he had never heard before. Antonius practiced as often as he could, picking up phrases such as greetings and words of action, but he sometimes stumbled. It was like the words in their language were said out of order. He would figure out the individual words and try to put them in a sentence, only for everyone around him to frown in confusion. It took some repeating before they understood, and even then, he had to say his sentences backwards.

He was forever grateful that Shem’el knew some of his language, and so, could supplement a word or phrase here and there. It made Antonius wonder how he came so far away from the civilizations they both knew. Perhaps he was a traveler? A trader?

But if there was something everyone knew, no matter the language, it was a work song that allowed chores such as grinding grain or gathering seaweed to be less of an annoyance. Stiofán has been singing such a song while working on the loom one morning. Antonius interrupted the lively melody to ask where Nat was. It was unlike her to miss the first meal of the day. Antonius quite liked seeing such a sharp, intelligent person as incoherent as a small child who had been rudely woken from a good dream.

“Go she to the forest,” Stiofán explained.

Antonius found out why when she came back with a freshly killed stag hours later.

She was dirty and tired, but grinning with pride. Everyone else was proud as well, as this stag would add to their winter stores considerably and provide some more hide to make clothes and water skins with. Fresh water was abundant in these lands, with the many rivers and frequent rains, but it was difficult at times to go the river when the mud was thick and cold. Antonius was finding himself wanting to stay in the caves and near the fire on such days, listening to stories and keeping his feet wrapped in a wool blanket.

Going over to him, Nat took his hand and placed the stone arrowhead she had used to kill the stag into his palm. He blinked up at her, not understanding. When he tried to give it back to her, she shook her head and curled his hand around it.

Stiofán hummed, contemplative as he tried to explain.

“Keeper,” he finally said. “Toní keeper.”

Antonius looked down at the arrowhead, its surface smooth and clean. Nat had taken the time to remove it from the spear and clean it. Then she gave it back to him.

He was the keeper of the tools?

They had clearly given him power in their clan: though he had given Nat the arrowhead as a gift, she had returned it. He could see what would be happening in the future. If someone wanted or needed a tool, they would have to ask him to use it first. He would never refuse them the chance to bring more meat to the clan or sew a cloak, but that they would respect the tools he had made and thus respect him …

He never asked for power. He did not make the tools to earn it either.

They had given it to him anyways.

Tears stinging his eyes, Antonius managed to say ‘thank you’.

* * *

Of all the clan Antonius spent time with, he found himself by Stiofán’s side the most. There was something about him that drew Antonius to Stiofán and kept him near.

Perhaps it was the soft ocean-blue of his eyes. Perhaps it was his thin and skillful hands. Perhaps it was because he was stubborn and prone to proving himself when there really was no need to. Perhaps it was because when someone else would have killed Antonius when he first stumbled out of the burial mound, dirty and bleeding and marked by the gods, Stiofán reached out to him.

He took him in and gave him a home.

As Antonius’ fluency in their language improved, they shared stories.

Stiofán once told him of some mines in another land across the sea, of a soft metal needed in the famous forges further into the mainland that were valuable for trade. The clan had some examples of it, along with other beautifully carved and decorated stone items, but they traded mostly for durable supplies than objects to merely be gazed at.

Antonius yearned for that metal; it was new to him and sounded like it would make working the hard metal he was used to a dream. _Ferro_ required so much heat and skill to work with, and sometimes, it was still brittle because of the impurities that were in it. Then there was the fact that wind and rain caused it to flake and turn. But if the cloak pin Nat had was any indication of what could be created with this new metal, then the things _he_ could create—

He made himself push those thoughts aside. It would do him no good dreaming, because the reality he was in did not allow for such pastimes.

* * *

Other stories were shared.

Slowly, over time, Antonius realized that all of them had been touched by the gods. They all confessed none of them knew why. It was to be expected, though.

The gods were the gods. They had their reasons.

Buk battled furiously against another tribe that had risen up from the sea with the intention of destroying his home village, which included Stiofán and a number of younger sisters. He lost an arm, but the gods were so impressed with his bravery that they restored it to him in a way that he could never lose it again. They called the metal _airgead_ , but he recognized it as _argento_ —the precious metal that had been discovered in lands to the east of island city states.

Nat single-handedly killed the war-like tribesmen who had kidnapped her and other women from her tribe, dragging them from their cold, mountain homes to the desert cities. They were to be sold into the slave markets, but the gods whispered in her ear. They told her when to strike and where to go after their captors’ souls had been carried away. She led all the other women to different places where they would be safe and find new clans and tribes. Then they guided her until she arrived on this island, where she met Buk and Stiofán.

Shem’el had spoken against a corrupt chieftain in his homeland, which was south of the Land of the Riverbank across the Great Sea as Antonius first suspected. He had been thrown into a jail chamber and tortured for weeks, but he refused to retract his accusations. Every night, he prayed to the gods for justice and freedom for his people, but they remained silent. Just as he was about thrown onto a pyre to be burned alive, his gods gave him a pair of ruby wings to carry him away. He flew and flew, until he arrived on this island as well.

Antonius was amazed. All of them were brought together by trials and tribulations, determined to stay together and protect their clan.

He appreciated Stiofán’s story most of all: upon his birth, Stiofán was so weak and frail, that his original clan did not believe that he would live. His mother, loving him so dearly, used all of her powers and knowledge as a healer to keep him alive. The gods spoke to her, Stiofán explained, telling her of new medicines and herbs that aided his breathing. They did not know why the gods had cursed him with such a weak body only to keep him alive, but Antonius had a feeling that the strength of his limbs was put into the strength of his spirit.

He had never met anyone like them before. He had never met someone like Stiofán before.

Antonius had a feeling that if given the chance, they would have started a revolution back on Thrinacia and undone every plot and scheme Ovadyah came up with.

* * *

Antonius watched as Stiofán created the pigments that he would later use on the cave walls. He had a flat stone on which he would put the raw materials and he would grind it with another stone until they were a smooth powder. He would then take a deep bowl and mix the powder with water, letting it sit for hours until everything had settled. Then he would only take the water—which was now colored—and let that dry to grind it once more. Sometimes he repeated the process two or three more times to get a fine paint.

Sometimes, there was a process long before that: having to gather certain roots, leaves, berries, bark, or even entire branches; drying them out or boiling them, grinding and mashing, mixing with other materials, straining and leaving to dry in the sun …

Stiofán was absolutely _dedicated_ to the art he created.

The wall of hands seemed to be the most important project, a community effort that they built upon throughout the ages. As he first observed, some of the hands were smaller than others, made when the person was a child or even an infant. He was not sure what the colors represented, but the tool used to apply the paint on the wall was simple and efficient. So long as someone could blow the paint out of the reed tube as another held their hand on the wall.

* * *

“What is that?”

Antonius looked up, scrambling back.

He had been drawing in the mud again, so absorbed in his drawing and calculations that he had not noticed someone approach him.

Stiofán looked down at his drawings, curious.

He stammered, unsure how to respond fully. His oral command of their language was still not the best. The last time someone had seen his plans, their eyes lit up with evil delight. Then his creations were put to war. But Stiofán’s eyes were only filled with wonder and curiosity, as if he had never seen someone do such work before.

Perhaps … perhaps in this part of the world, they had not.

So, he explained as best he could. Stiofán nodded along. It was obvious that he did not understand everything, but that he was willing to listen, made Antonius’ heart warm.

* * *

That got him thinking.

But thinking was what brought him here; it caused so much trouble before.

He couldn’t help it.

He prayed to Athana for wisdom, if she would hear him.

* * *

Over the next two days, he worked on a drier patch of dirt to sketch out what he wanted to create. Pictures seemed to convey what he was trying to express more than his broken sentences. He begged and pleaded to the whole clan, explaining over and over again the reasons why he should be allowed a forge. It would take up a huge amount of time and resources to build a forge, let alone maintain one, but his creations could provide them with additional means of trade and income, or at least some new pottery to better protect their grain.

Stiofán and the others looked back and forth between each other, bewildered.

He felt his stomach and spirit sink.

“Antonius?” Stiofán said, gently.

He looked up.

“If you want to create this, we will help you. It is just that we have never seen such a thing, save for in stories that some of the traders tell us of. We thought it was a fantasy.”

“They are real,” Antonius said. “It is just that knowledge of how to make them has not reached these lands yet. But I can make it. I have done it before.”

Stiofán smiled and so did everyone else.

“We will help you.”

Antonius’ heart skipped a beat when everyone else nodded.

* * *

When he finally fell asleep that night, he recalled how the gods said that he would suffer.

He did not know what they meant, but at the moment, he did not care. He had found a new home. He had found people he loved and who loved him in return.

He wasn’t abandoned and alone.

But, perhaps, a part of him wondered … the suffering was a slower killer than abandonment or loneliness, for hew might never know of Thrinacia’s fate.

* * *

Stiofán stared at him in wonder.

“You …?”

Antonius felt a blush creep up his neck. He nodded. His hands were sore from the work and there were a few parts of his cloak were now burned. He would have to make a new apron, one of thick hide and special oils that would protect him better, but now he knew the forge worked. The _ferros_ he had gathered from the bog was good, if somewhat tricky to gather.

Stiofán looked back down at the metal arrowhead in his hand.

“You are amazing,” Stiofán said, his eyes wide.

* * *

The arrow proved to be useful a week later when a boar came rampaging through the fields.

Ordinarily, men would have gotten hurt and an entire crop would have been lost.

Instead, Shem’el was able to send the arrow straight into its neck.

* * *

Over the next weeks, Antonius created and created: he made arrows, lengths of metal that could hold pieces of wood together, small parts that made the loom work better, and more.

He felt alive, free.

* * *

There was a commotion outside of the cave one afternoon.

It had been a few years since he had originally come to these lands and now, he could not bear the thought of ever parting from them. He still thought of his friends and wondered whatever became of them, as much as he grew to love the friends he had made here. The forge had grown and expanded more than it ever could in Thrinacia. He was allowed to design what he wanted, use what resources he could find, and more often than not, he made items that allowed people to perform their duties more easily and protect each other from the dangerous wilds.

No one asked for axes or swords; for arrows to pierce men’s’ hearts.

Last spring, a young man from the village shyly asked if he could make a broach for his sweetheart, so he might have a gift if her father gave his blessing.

The _ferros_ he found in the bogs were harder to manipulate for something decorative, but he was proud of the results anyways.

As the commotion grew louder, Antonius approached the entrance and looked out. He had been designing another kind of arrow, one that could stay attached to the shaft without leather string or needing to be taken off for cleaning. It could allow them to carry the arrows on their back and reduce damage. Normally, nothing would have pulled him away from creating, but he could have sworn …

Buk and Shem’el were a short distance away, close to the dirt road that led to the fishing areas. There were some other figures, arguing with them. A group of travelers it seemed, maybe about ten or so people. They appeared to be of different ages and appearances. Was there a conflict in one of those larger, organized settlements further to the north? He could have sworn the king and queen of the northern kingdoms had figured out their cattle herd issue months ago.

Perhaps someone was just simply migrating into the area? Or performing a pilgrimage to the burial chamber? He squinted his eyes to see better before he—

“Actus! Peperi!”

He rushed over to then, crashing into Actus with a tight embrace. There were more shouts and confusion, but all of that faded into the background. Besides Actus and Peperi, who seemed to be healthy, there was also Petros, one of the younger servants of his former home. He had grown another _pes_ , making him just slightly taller than Antonius. With him was another child, much younger. She couldn’t have been older than seven years.

He would get the details and stories later. He could not believe that they were _here_. That they found him, that they were _alive_ —

“Antonius!” Peperi cried, her eyes becoming wet with tears. “We finally found you!”

“We thought the gods took you away forever!” Actus continued. “But then the oracle—”

“The oracle?” Antonius repeated.

Buk listened in confusion, not knowing the language they spoke in. Others of the clan were now coming around, curious and bewildered.

Peperi nodded and explained how they went to see the oracle. They initially had wanted to know if the gods would help them fight against Ovadyah, but the oracle insisted it was not their place to do that; justice would come in other ways. There were other peoples, the oracle warned, peoples who would come and take and take. Their island would not be safe. No land would be safe once the empire of the seven hills rose up. Antonius felt sick. There were stories about such peoples, those who made arms for the sole purpose of conquering others.

There were few tribes or clans who had been able to amass much of anything, let alone enough to kill over. To simply kill for the thrill of it—

But instead of warning their people or going to fight against this empire before it could rise up, the oracle sent them on a mission: to find Antonius. After that, the oracle decreed, their fates would be up to themselves, for they would have left the realms of their gods.

“The oracle also said that you were beyond the realms of our gods,” Actus said. “That other gods had marked you.”

There was silence after Peperi and Actus finished.

Antonius felt … relieved? Saddened?

He could not describe the weight that had been lifted off his shoulders. He thought he had angered the gods by doing too much, for reaching too far with his tools and projects. He thought that in going into their caves, he had incurred their wrath and so, they removed him from all he knew and loved, leaving their mark in a way that could not be ignored. He thought that he was doomed to never know what happened to his friends, those he cared for, even as he started to build a life here. The shadows of what he had done would always mar any life he might have.

But now … Now those who meant the most to him were here, safe and sound. And from the looks of it, maybe two more than he expected.

“What god did mark me?” he asked. “Why did they mark me?”

He had always avoided looking at it and used a cloak to hide its light at night.

Stiofán placed his hand on Antonius’ shoulder.

“Come,” he said, gently.

Antonius followed Stiofán as he led him to a deeper part of the cave. He had seen Stiofán and the others go back there from time to time, but he left it alone, recognizing it as a sacred area for offerings and prayers to be made to a god. With the light of a torch they kept there, he saw that there was a simple niche carved into the rock of the cave. There was a bowl, a statue made of stone, and a rock painted with the same swirls as those in the huge burial chamber.

But inside the bowl was a shining stone—a clear crystal—that made him gasp.

Carved into it was the symbol also carved into his chest: a circle with lines radiating out, as if it were the sun.

“We did not want to mention it until you did,” Stiofán admitted. “But perhaps, you did not even know. Toní, you have a mark of Lugh—you have been blessed.”

“Blessed?” Antonius asked, not knowing that god’s name or their significance.

Stiofán smiled. “Yes. Lugh, the many skilled, the oath maker. The chooser of kings, the warrior who commands the spear. He is a god of many things, but above all, skill. Like you.”

Antonius stared at the shining rock in the niche with a sense of awe.

Tears started to flood his eyes.

He was blessed. His gods had not sent him here to punish him, but like Shem’el and the others, to give him safety and family. To make a new, better life.

Stiofán pulled him into a hug. Antonius buried his face into Stiofán’s bony shoulder and didn’t hold back his sobs.

* * *

Besides Peperi, Actus, and Petros, Antonius learned that there were a few others who would like to stay, if the village would have them. The little girl had been named Morgan. She had been found abandoned on the road once crossing the sea and arriving on the island, so giving her a name that reflected the ocean seemed suitable. There was also Brix, who was a strange, hermit sort of person. He preferred to live further away from others, but Antonius quickly learned that he had a brilliant mind similar to his own. It was more inclined to herbs and medicine, which allowed him to connect quickly with Stiofán’s mother, Sarah.

Perhaps he would stay; perhaps he would not.

There was also Ioanna and d’Arcy, who would continue to the northern lands in search of a man who had made promises to Ioanna. They would also look for their families, strange events having taken them far from their homelands.

“But not your gods,” d’Arcy said, her command of the language quite surprising. She only grinned. Antonius suspected that some god clearly favored her.

All in all, the village adjusted to these newcomers and the changes they brought with ease.

They had welcomed Antonius with open arms, after all.

* * *

Antonius pulled his hand from the wall and stared at his handprint outlined in a pale blue.

Peperi, Actus, and Petros had already added their handprints in a bright yellow color that matched well with the reds, whites, and oranges of the other handprints. Morgan had giggled when her hand was dipped into the paint. Hers was a little smudged, but it still made him smile to see it, so small among everyone else’s.

Stiofán beamed. The pigment would likely dry a little darker, but … Antonius felt a warmth in his chest that he could not ascribe to the strange symbol the gods had placed within it.

“I …” He stammered, unable to voice his thoughts.

Stiofán smiled and took Antonius’ hand into his, the paint smearing across their fingers.

Antonius stepped closer to him.

If anyone minded their embrace, no one said.


End file.
